


Welcome, Player Two

by KittySmith



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus does not see Tom as his mentee lol, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Angst and Humor, Coup within a Coup, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends, Eventually catches up with the series, Fear-driven bad decisions, Gen, Harry Potter makes his dramatic entrance when he makes his dramatic entrance, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Sane Tom Riddle, Sane Voldemort, Tilted morality, Tom Riddle is still Voldemort, Video Game Mechanics, Voldemort has Reasons, Voldemort sees Albus as his mentor because he was for most of his resets, Young Tom Riddle, all platonic all the time, trans!friendly union of fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittySmith/pseuds/KittySmith
Summary: Tom Riddle has had the system flashing before his eyes for as long as he can remember. He doesn't mind; the quests and titles usually help him out. Plus, he has a greater advantage now that he's figured out what this "save file" is - he can restart his life from two years old whenever it goes horribly wrong.Yet it just keeps going horribly wrong.Exhausting his options with a good alignment, Tom turns his hand to evil out of helpless fear and the knowledge that everything is reversible.At least, until the day his file is reset with a simple system announcement."Welcome, Player Two."
Relationships: Harry Potter & Voldemort
Comments: 20
Kudos: 160





	1. Autosave

Tom Riddle had his first system notification appear on his birthday. Probably his first birthday, but he could only barely remember the second. Hell, it may have possibly appeared the moment he'd been born, but he just assumed the first year for the sake of simplicity.

What he _could_ remember was the quiet ding his second birthday as teal font scrolled itself in front of him, hanging in midair with words he later learned would be:

_Achievement: Age:_ **_2._**

**_2_ ** _years of playtime._

_Autosave in progress._

Granted, he learned this thanks to accidentally loading that save file two years later, but the trauma of regressing from four to two was minimized by the boon of discovering the options menu, with the ability to reload the save file.

Plus his own character profile.

Curiously, Tom touched the text floating before him, opening his information and scrolling down.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

**_0_ ** _title(s) earned._ **_1_ ** _active effect(s)._

_Level_ **_3_ ** _Civilian._

_Age:_ **_2_ ** _years_

_Playtime:_ **_4_ ** _years_

_Alignment: neutral._

_Stats: Locked._

He flicked back to the active effects, ignoring words he hadn't heard used quite like that _Alignment? Like orientation? Directions?_ \- and tried to push down the churning in his tummy.

Something affecting him in a way the system took notice was probably not good.

_Malnutrition,_ read the listed effects, _-2 to constitution._

Well, Tom could figure out that word. But what could he do? Now he was small again and useless. At least this meant he could keep from mentioning the system notifications to the matron this time around. Tom hadn't exactly enjoyed the asylum for the year he'd been visiting there. Even if he'd managed to nick some of their complicated books…

Which he no longer had and couldn't get back without going to the asylum.

There was an edge of numb panic to his thoughts that made him refocus. Oh, he'd drifted a ways, hadn't he? Mind returning to his current problems, Tom was hungry. His stomach was close to turning on him and absorbing his tiny, clumsy freeloader of a body for nutrients.

He needed food. But where to get it? He was two years back, and he refused to build from the ground up, barely knew where to start. 

Honestly, he was still just trying to keep from bursting into tearless sobs of fear from the whole experience. Being uprooted from your own time and body with no warning wasn't a walk in the park. His hands were still shaking and he didn't think he'd ever felt quite this helpless before.

There was a quiet ding.

_A Matter of Grumblies._

A quest appeared before him, system-generated in bland, toddler-friendly language a child with half Tom's intelligence would understand. Directions to where the matron was currently stashing hardtack made up most of the quest description, along with the warning that being caught would negatively impact his alignment. 

Whatever that meant.

It was the first time the system blatantly helped him out.

It would not be the last. 

  
  


.

“I get it,” Tom swiped inconspicuously at the air, shoving the glowing _Work before Play_ quest out of his way as he stood up on his tiptoes beneath the cracked window that opened into Wool’s Orphanage’s entryway. His voice was a nearly undetectable mumble, “I just want to know who she’s talking to, first.”

Not wanting to relive any more of his childhood years, Tom had carefully kept from loading his two year old save for the past nine years. Instead, he’d focused on what the system called, _Backstory Quests_. They were mostly little things that allowed him to define his alignment, like finding a lost toy and then choosing to return it or sell it. He got a small amount of experience points each time, allowing him to increase his level from two to four. What effect this might have had yet to be shown. Tom’s stats were still locked and any change in his skill levels could easily be attributed to growing up.

_Work before Play_ flashed insistently before his eyes and Tom pushed it down again, with a bigger, more irritated gesture.

The system was always trying to- well, to mother him, really. Of course Tom was grateful _something_ seemed to care if he ate or got enough sleep, but right now, he just needed to focus on not getting caught.

“Tom, is that you?” Grey eyes peered through a whole section of the sooty glass before narrowing good-naturedly. The matron looked down at him with her hands on bony hips, elbows sharp with the lack of rations they were all suffering through. Her smile, however, was softer than her appearance would suggest. “I certainly hope you aren’t up to any mischief out there.”

“Ah, would that be…?” Her visitor turned, allowing Tom to see more than a fall of unfashionably long auburn hair that curled and kinked in a decidedly unkempt way, despite the beads through which the man had woven it in some attempt to keep order.

At his question, the matron nodded, tight lines of stress pulling her face taut once more. “Yes, our Tom Riddle. You may as well come in, child.”

“Yes’m,” Tom bobbed his head in acquiescence before making his way to the front door, aware the game was up. And worse, the meeting had been about _him_. His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs.

This wasn’t another attempt to send him to an asylum, was it? The matron may have forgotten the first time when he’d reloaded his previous save file and wiped those two years from existence, but Tom had never forgotten. Although the doctors had refused to accept a four year old as a permanent resident, the onset of what they called “vivid and concerning” hallucinations had made for many repeat visits. Cold and sterile with ever-watching, distant eyes, Tom was unlikely to let it go any time soon. In fact, he’d laid plans so he would never have to go back. Or rather, he’d spent the intervening years being so good, he had thought he’d made sure of it. Perhaps one of the other children had seen him moving his hands oddly through empty air, or heard him having a conversation with nothing. 

“Hello, Mr. Riddle,” the strange man leaned down and offered him a hand to shake, seemingly delighted when Tom accepted with a practiced smile. “I’m Professor Dumbledore, and I teach at a school for gifted children like yourself.”

Gifted, huh? As if any real school would be trolling an orphanage in London for students. Maybe he could throw the matron’s precious gin bottle at his head and make a break for it.

Unaware of the young boy’s violent plans, Dumbledore straightened calmly and gestured towards the door, “If you’d like, we might go for a walk and discuss more about this school.”

“Of course he would,” the matron smiled, laying a supposedly friendly hand on Tom’s shoulder. The brief squeeze told him he had no choice but to agree with her decision. “Especially when your school is so generous as to consider extending Tom a scholarship for full tuition!”

Ah. That made sense, then. Either that or she really was shipping off to an asylum and wanted his struggles to be somewhere out of her immediate sight. Might lessen the guilt.

Tom fiddled with the frayed edges of his sleeve and sent Dumbledore a shy smile, considering his options. If he agreed and he took the initiative, he might lead Dumbledore to the back gates and run from there. Still, it wasn’t ideal. He didn’t exactly have anywhere to go, even if he was sure he could somehow manage on his own.

Not to mention, he wasn’t entirely certain this man wouldn’t have anticipated an escape attempt and posted orderlies at the back gate. He had a crafty sort of look about him that Tom didn’t trust.

Dammit, he didn’t want to end up in the asylum _or_ back as a two year old! He wanted to save reverting to his previous save file for life and death situations only. Especially considering he’d finally made it to eleven years old. It already had stung to see _13 years of playtime_ staring back at him when he’d gotten that achievement.

He hadn’t _wanted_ to redo two years of his life and doing another nine seemed mind-numbingly awful. How could he get out of this?

“Sir, I would love to accept your kind offer, but truly, I am not qualified to study somewhere with _gifted_ children!” Tom tried to keep a sort of confusion in his voice by wondering exactly what the other children had reported. He’d thought he’d been rather circumspect, even with talking to the system on occasion. “I’m no one special - surely someone like me doesn’t deserve an opportunity like this?”

Blinded. He had been blinded. Dumbledore’s smile was too bright for the simple statement; he was far too pleased by what had been merely an attempt to appear humble and, more importantly, sane.

“Ah, my dear boy,” the so-called professor adjusted the lapels of his violet suit and toned down the smile a modicum. Tom could just barely see him through the sunspots. “It is precisely someone like you that most deserves to attend Hogwarts.”

At that moment, the system blared a trumpet and a congratulatory achievement scrolled across the screen about completing the Good Little Boy backstory with his acceptance to this school, unintentionally validating the professor’s claims. He almost wished they hadn’t.

What kind of fly by night establishment would go by the name of _Hogwarts_?


	2. Restart

Last time: 

_What kind of fly by night establishment would go by the name of_ _Hogwarts_ _?_

A magical one, evidently.

Tom had been awed, humbled, and impressed by the wizarding world with its magical toys and amazing castles and fantastic beasts… Right up until he wasn’t. He’d established a firm alignment by completing the Good Little Boy backstory - Lawful Good, or so his status declared. It meant he gained much higher rewards from quests that involved helping others or following the law and could actually get punished for successfully doing the opposite. Not that Tom had tried anything terrible, of course. He’d just snapped at a second year while his stress from studying for NEWTs was at an all time high and gotten a minor penalty for it. Infrequently, he would get this sort of kickback from the system when he was upset or screwed up.

Now, he was working in the library, ignoring his fellow Slytherins as much as he could, waiting for the timer to run out on his punishment. He couldn’t afford to stack the effects, as they got exponentially worse with each offense within a certain amount of time. Right now, he merely felt sluggish and unwell. _The Burden of Guilt_ , as his active effects would read had he checked.

He’d prefer being able to dodge the inevitable curses and traps when he returned to the Slytherin dorms tonight, so for now he had to take the insults as they came. Returning nothing but silence. Kind, patient silence.

Tom was patient. He could be kind. He was a pretty okay kind of-

“Oops,” Avery swiped his parchment off the table, trodding on it with a muddied boot. His face was the type that could be handsome, if it weren’t always twisted into a sneer when Tom had seen it. “Oh, Tom-Tom, I hope you weren’t very far along.”

Tom sometimes wished he were a meaner person, with a great deal more power than a muggleborn like him could manage in Hogwarts. But soon enough he’d be done with school, and his grades - his whole reputation - would be impeccable. He’d get a job at the Ministry and work his way up, no matter how long it took. His career goals aside, even if he occasionally wanted to strangle Avery and leave him in a shallow grave, he knew he’d never go through with it. Murder was a little out of his wheelhouse.

“Tom’s such a lovely little name, isn’t it?” Strong eyebrows raised on Avery’s ever-sneering face as he leaned in closer to Tom, who was determined to remain distracted and aloof. Unresponsive. The pureblood gripped the back of Tom’s neck with an unfriendly hand, “It means dirt, doesn’t it?”

Nope. It did not. Tom knew better than to respond, however.

“Mud,” Avery drew out with relish. “Just like the blood in your veins. Like all your little tests will turn out to be this year.”

What exactly did that mean? Tension coiled in Tom’s gut as Avery squeezed tighter. He couldn’t entirely suppress the instinctive flinch, given his distraction, and Avery grinned.

“I have a friend,” he said meaningfully, breath rolling across Tom’s face with a forced intimacy that made Tom grip the seat of his chair. He barely bit back a sardonic congratulations, forcing himself to wait and see what Avery would reveal on his own in search of a bigger reaction. He didn’t have long to wait. “He’s planning to proctor for NEWTs students this year. Of course, he’s bound to do a fantastic job weeding out the chaff. I hear he has a very discerning eye. No one who’s of the right sort should suffer.”

He winked and released Tom’s neck with a rough, quick slap to his back.

So his scores wouldn’t be… counted. Or they’d be heavily penalized. Or they’d be lost. There was plenty of opportunity for sabotage. Well, Tom could succeed without test scores, right? As a muggleborn? From Slytherin? He didn’t even have a muggle education and he was trapped in a world that didn’t want him, that hated him from every angle no matter how kind he had tried to be.

Without another word, Avery walked away.

Tom was alone in his corner of the library again, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just been told that everything- _everything_ he’d done would be for nothing. He could feel his breath coming in quick - too quick - little gasps that weren’t giving him the air he needed. Within moments, his vision swam and he clutched his chest like he could push the oxygen into his lungs with his hands alone.

His eyes burned without tears, like they always did, and he found himself opening the only option he had left.

Tom selected his ancient, two year old save and erased the whole damn world.

.

He tried again. His grades were perfect, but no one would hire him. Not without networking he’d neglected this time around trying to keep out of the purebloods’ way. When even Flourish and Blotts wouldn’t take him as a salesclerk, he had had enough.

.

He tried again. With Professor Dumbledore as his mentor, Tom manahed some success. He was working as an undersecretary for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office when the letter came in. It appeared to be his two weeks notice, backdated two weeks ago. The director’s snotty son was already walking in, sizing up the tiny desk.

.

He tried again. His heart was in the right place, they kept telling him, but no one would listen to a muggleborn without some powerful backing - and Professor Dumbledore evidently didn't get involved in the Ministry past recommendations. Especially not regarding _government reform._ In spite of these assurances, it turned out someone did listen to him and if his heart had been a little out of place, he might not have had to load his save file choking on his own blood.

.

He tried again and again and again. Mocking echoes filled his ears with every restart, dogging his steps as everything he did turned to so much dust. After all, Tom means dirt, doesn’t it? Why was this so hard? He had an infinite number of opportunities to try again. He’d even changed his alignment to pretty much every variation of good he could reach. He’d tried neutral once! And every time, he failed. The world closed in on him and shoved his face into the dirt to remind him what he was and would always be. No matter that he knew more than anyone at Hogwarts barring his mentor, Albus Dumbledore. It wasn’t important that he could recreate a simplified version of Hogwarts’ wards or invent spells the same way other wizards collected chocolate frog cards. Nothing he did mattered.

He was dirt.

He was also currently two years old again, so it was perfectly acceptable to burst into tearless weeping. Laying on the floor beside the crib he’d evidently crawled out of in his very first life, Tom stared at the ceiling, tiny body wracked with sobs he couldn’t stop.

He hated this so much.

.

Tom kept going. He escaped the wizarding world before his letter came and learned to survive on his own. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already looked into wandlore; he was certain he could make his own at this point. The theory behind it wasn’t all that complex. Tom could translate his understanding into reality and just live quietly in a corner of the world using magic to keep any adventurous muggles at bay.

Turns out that wasn’t entirely true.

Wands were difficult.

He reset and spent his childhood irritably waiting to get to Hogwarts’ library again so he could figure out where he was going wrong. It took years of study, but he had years. Grades weren’t exactly important when he wasn’t planning to live through this run. Especially since end of year exams decided whether a student continued to the next year, even for students that did absolutely no homework their entire stay at Hogwarts.

He ignored so many detentions the teachers started to ignore him, too. It was almost peaceful - if Dumbledore would stop dragging him into meetings about his wasted potential. Not for the first time, he wondered if his mentor had some inkling of a memory from previous lives. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would think he had potential to waste in this timeline. Barely doing enough to pass a few exams did not a prodigy make.

Still, it hadn’t been awful. Though he’d ended up in Slytherin like he always did, they’d been their normal nasty, without trying to utterly crush him. Probably because he just didn’t matter at all this time around.

Maybe this could be his strategy.

.

Yeah, no. No, no no-

“No, no, no,” Tom panted under his breath, voice catching and hands scraping across bark. His thoughts were spilling out of his mouth as the whooping of his yearmates caught up with him. He had stumbled and his lead was shortening with every second he took to get back to his feet. Sometimes not mattering meant being an easy target when they did finally notice you. Somehow he’d forgotten that.

His blood screamed through his veins, painfully throbbing beneath his skin as he ran through waves of hot and cold, sweeping over his skin as his fear peaked again and again. 

_Muggle Hunt_ read the quest markers pulsing in his peripheral vision. He aimed for them, knowing the system wouldn’t lead him directly into danger. At least, as long as he paid attention. There were always perils in involuntary quests like this one; ones that arose from his choices and the choices of those around him. In this case, the other Slytherins.

They were hunting him. But it was just a game for them - they weren’t going to kill him. Probably. On purpose. It was a joke.

It was just a joke.

He’d be fine.

If he really believed that, he wouldn’t be pushing back to his feet and forcing his burning legs and lungs to push through. Definitely he wouldn’t be running deeper into the Forbidden Forest without his wand.

“Tommy! Wait, it’s dangerous in there!’

“Tom, come back!”

The mock concern in their calls was followed by raucous laughter; he just needed to block them out and run.

“Hey- hey, wait! Riddle! That’s actually-”

Just run. Just-

Pain lanced through his nerves. His muscles seized and he could hear the other Slytherins calling out but he couldn’t see. For a moment, everything was dark. Then he blinked and someone was leaning over him, shaking his shoulder. Another blink and he was alone in the dark. One last blink and the sun was beating down on his shaking limbs as he tried and failed to sit up.

His head thumped painfully back against a gnarled knot of ancient roots as he stared out into the forest.

_Quest failed_ , read the scrolling text he’d never managed to fully explain. He didn't care it was a failure. That quest had popped up against his will, anyway. He hadn’t wanted to earn anything.

He’d wanted to survive.

Tom struggled to bend his arm and got a hand over his mouth before the sob could escape.

He almost died. If he died he’d- it’d all be gone and he’d have never proven he was anything but dirt. All this misery would be worth less than nothing. And he’d be _gone_. A cold thrill raced up his spine beneath the lingering ache and slid into place around his throat like an iron band. Brilliant. He was too exhausted to move and yet his body found just enough energy to scrape together a panic attack.

That was _it_. Tom couldn’t handle this anymore. Not the way it was now. He needed insurance. He needed to know for certain he wouldn’t die if some pureblood decided he’d looked at them funny. No cost was too high.

After all, he could always get it back.


	3. The Evil Track

Tom didn’t particularly hate the evil track. Professor Dumbledore was paying him a _lot_ of attention, true, and it wasn’t exactly positive attention, but… It was nice to be able to just do whatever he wanted. He got some fairly helpful power boosts from doing selfish things and he didn’t get penalized for doing good things unless it directly acted against his own self interest. Good was a lot more demanding from his experience with evil so far.

He’d completed the “Up and Coming Hothead” backstory after exhausting the neutral options in terms of available resources. There were only so many ways to get information when one was unwilling to go to extremes. Therefore he’d spent his childhood causing explosive bouts of accidental magic that ranged from inconvenient to an accidental maiming he figured he’d erase when he restarted next round. An older boy named Billy had decided to push Tom around for the day and had literally given him a shove while Tom had been concentrating on breaking one of the ceiling rafters. His magic had rebounded and Billy was sans leg in a bloodless accident that reminded him of splinching. While it hadn’t been his intent, the system had rewarded him with an achievement called “Little Boy’s Big Break” that he supposed was meant to be for simply breaking a bone. At least Billy wouldn’t die in the army this go through.

Despite these hiccups and the familiarity Tom gained with the Obliviators assigned to his district, things at Hogwarts were going rather swimmingly. He was in Slytherin again - that never varied - and his housemates tread very carefully around him. All he had to do was twitch his wand the wrong way and the room cleared. It was a far cry from the malicious glee they once showed whenever they saw him coming. Instead, he was the one who had a curl of vindication when they fled like mice.

He didn’t know how many times they’d almost killed him. Keeping count was something he hadn’t had the stomach to do. Now, he doubted they’d have the guts to openly defy him.

Yes, fear was surely the way to go.

These thoughts were just barely solidifying when Tom felt something strange in his chest. The cup that dropped from his hand didn’t splash anyone else; there was no one sitting at his end of the table, after all. Eyes sat on him with a cold determination from the other end. While students from other tables were reacting with surprise and, in some cases, horror as Tom spasmed, most of the upper year Slytherins were quiet and still.

They didn’t move to help him.

Tom hit the save file and gasped in air at two years old, rage burning in his chest.

Being invisible wasn’t enough; they’d notice eventually and he would seem weak. Being feared wasn’t enough; they apparently would reach a breaking point. Being respected was out of the question with who he was. Why was the world so stacked against him?

He had the ability to reset his entire life and he could still only occasionally survive school! If only he could be someone else - anyone else! If he were pureblood, he’d have risen to Minister the first time through! He wouldn’t be worried about securing his life to the point he was seriously considering dark arts. If he weren’t Tom Riddle, mudblood.

Before he could try to stamp his little feet and work up into a truly glorious tantrum, there was a quiet ping. Text scrolled solemnly across his field of view. Slower than it usually was, as if the system was hesitating or trying to drudge up the information from where it had been forgotten.

 _Backstory Quest: The Heir_ , it read. _Yes or no?_

The letters were red and below the tagline was a white box filled with smaller font saying, _Warning: this choice cannot be undone. Please be sure you want to continue on as The Heir in all future playthroughs._

His anger dissipated under the weight of cold shock. The system often suggested quests based on his situation, but it had yet to suggest a backstory, much less one that couldn’t be taken back. There was no way to know what a backstory called “The Heir” entailed, other than… well, other than the implication that his family would be involved. Supposedly he was named after his father, but according to the matron, his mother had been a horrid wretch of a woman who had given up and died rather than raise him without her husband. For all he knew, he was named after who she _wanted_ to be his father. Due to this uncertainty, Tom had never pursued any leads regarding his name. After all, if he had living family that wanted to find him, the “family name” Marvolo was incredibly unique in the muggle world and his father had surely known there was some chance of having a child with his mother, but never checked in.

Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He raised his fist and hovered it over the _no_ option.

Yet, this… Maybe his father’s family had been magical. Was still magical. Sure, they hadn’t come looking for him in any timeline; possibly because they didn’t want a half-blood in their family tree. But if Tom was a half-blood, it was leagues better than a mudblood. His family might not want him, but this backstory… The Heir. He might be able to inherit whatever they had in terms of titles and property, anyway, if he could prove the link. It wasn’t as if paternity potions were something he’d need to invent, either.

Secondhand respect was better than none.

Tom chose yes and his world went white.


End file.
